


Stop. Don't Stop.

by Lynzee005



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Can't keep their hands off each other, Embarrassment, Fluff, Hotel Sex, M/M, Paris (City), Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 04:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynzee005/pseuds/Lynzee005
Summary: Eleven days is a long time when it's the longest you've gone without seeing each other in years.[Paul and John rendezvous in Paris for a romantic weekend getaway]





	Stop. Don't Stop.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waveofahand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/gifts).

> A sexy little one-shot based on a short story that appeared in John Lennon's third book, a posthumous work of experimental fiction _Skywriting By Word of Mouth_. The story is believed, by some, to be a rather fanciful account of John and Paul's rendezvous in Paris on the weekend of September 16-18, 1966, during a break in the filming of _How I Won the War_, written in code but decipherable to the ardent McLennon observer. (You can read the [story](https://turtleneck-redux.tumblr.com/post/131581357893/an-assignment-in-jamaica-had-brought-out-the-best) and the [most interesting details of the story](https://sgtsaltsband.tumblr.com/post/187281252553/john-wrote-a-short-story-where-he-has-sex-with-a) on Tumblr).
> 
> The second inspiration was this amazing, incredible gif created by Tumblr user [chrobáci](https://chrobaci.tumblr.com/post/131944283626/dont-blame-me-blame-my-environment). Definitely NSFW.

_ A cable had arrived for him that very morning stating the obvious: _

_‘_ _Come too quickly. Stop. Try again. Stop. Am waiting in Paris. Stop me if you’ve heard it. Stop. Stuff yourself with artichokes and live. _

_Stop. Don’t stop. Stop.'_

* * *

The first thing Paul does is cross the room to shut the drapes, shut out their top floor view of Paris—_Paris!_—even though no one will be able to see them in the soft darkness of the suite once they get started. And John wonders then if Paul is ashamed, and that notion pings painfully off his ribs for a moment until Paul looks at him with smiling eyes heavy-lidded as if to say _ Sure, that’s the Seine and there’s the Eiffel Tower, but you’re the only view that matters_. 

So then it’s tongues and tangled hands and seven full, incomprehensibly long hours after they first laid eyes on each other in the lobby of the Hotel George V, and Paul crosses that dimly lit sliver of a room and has John against the wall beside the bed, and it’s the only place he wants to be. 

“Fuck I missed you,” Paul breathes into John’s mouth, filling his lungs with words they haven’t been able to speak for far too long.

“Bet I missed you more.” 

There’s no way to measure that, so it’s just going to have to hang there unverified, a rumour whispered in the dark; that’s alright by them. Paul twists his fingertips through John’s belt loops; John’s shirt is already off, long-ago discarded by the front door, the first piece of what’s separating them to fall away. He tugs on the tucked in part of Paul’s dress shirt, pops a button, works it up to the middle of Paul’s ribcage, desperate to run his hands along the pale skin of his chest.

“Tie,” Paul mutters.

_Tie_, John thinks as he lets go of fabric fisted and yanks on the simple four-in-hand knot, dislodging it from the base of Paul’s throat. He does away with the top buttons too. Everything comes off cleanly then, as easily as Paul came away from whatever was happening in London, booking a flight at the drop of a hat for a surprise weekend in Paris.

But of course Brian is there too. And Neil. So it’s not quite like five years ago. But they’ve made do. In a hired car driving down Boulevard Saint-Germain that afternoon, doing what little sight-seeing they could, they’d played footsie next to one another in the backseat. Brian would be giving excited history lessons about this building or that square, with Neil paying attention to maps and giving directions and nodding absently whenever Brian said something he thought he should acknowledge, and all the while John would be running his pinky finger along Paul’s on the bench seat, their hands hidden by autumn jackets. Paul would fidget and hide his giggles and sillies, because it was an inopportune moment to reveal an erection, especially an erection caused by nothing more than the faint scratch of John’s fingernail against his, which is all it takes to excite him, it seems; touch-starved, Paul is a mess and they’re not even alone yet. 

But John just can’t help himself. Behind windows rolled tight, John waved off Neil’s navigation to give directions down a series of narrow criss-crossing streets on the Left Bank. “Right here… okay, no, left up here… hmm, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere… take another right… slow down… no, stop here, just give me a moment” and Paul flexed his hand against John’s because he knew exactly what he was doing. They were right there alongside the hotel they’d stayed at before, young and foolish and with £100 burning a hole in John’s back pocket, and Paul just had rolled down the window, just a crack but enough to give Eppy palpitations as Paul feigned curiosity and snapped photos of the front door (where they’d ducked out of the rain), that street corner (where they kissed for the first time), their upstairs window (where they did everything else)—places where their memories could drown them both if they let it—before John winked: “Never mind, wrong street.” And off they went, Brian and Neil none the wiser, Paul with the Cheshire grin, and John doffing an invisible hat—an invisible bowler hat, you see, because bowler hats ought to remind them both of Paris, and clearly it does, and that, perhaps, means the most to John.

Paul blushes, from his temples to his throat and lower, beneath his shirt and tie, and John can imagine the splotches embarrasing themselves across his chest out of sight and he wants to tear open the buttons and kiss each one, acknowledge them, mark them off. Wants to make Paul all his once again. And it shouldn’t be hard; Almería isolation apparently has nothing on London bachelorhood. Because even though John has been through a spaghetti western desert and back again—it’s written in his caramel tan and the fine sand he can’t dislodge from the creases in his ears—Paul’s the one who’s dying of thirst. 

John can’t decide how best to revive him, or if he should let him suffer a bit longer, just for the fun of it.

But still. It was lunch at this restaurant, and more driving around, and a meeting and a conference call and then supper in the hotel—seven hours of this—and all the teasing and taunting and secretly flirting nearly breaks John until finally Brian goes to make a private phone call and Neil is off wherever and Paul pockets the key to his room and follows John to his and _ here they are_, and it’s magic. John touches Paul and he dissolves, an incoherent mess of sounds whispered and moaned to the only person who could ever delight this much in their production.

Paul hums against John’s neck as he finally works the belt off and begins on the button fly, and John pushes Paul’s shirt off and takes what he’s wanted all day, presses his fingers into taut, pale, flushed flesh. Darkly possessive in the dark, possessed, he can’t help himself, backs Paul to the bed and pushes him to the million-billion-threadcount bedlinens, soft as breathing. He hooks one of Paul’s legs in his arm, pushes him to the center, hovers over him. 

“I should throw the window open and fuck you loudly enough for Le Général to hear,” John says, catching Paul’s jaw with the heel of one hand, thumb between his teeth. Paul’s eyes roll back in his head as the blush John loves so much floods his pale skin, a brindled sea of pinks and reds. He loves making Paul squirm. “You’d like that?”

“John…” Paul’s voice quavers around John’s thumb, because this is treading on Paul’s biggest fear—the publicity of it, the exposure of _ Them_, because there’s a _ Them _now, and it’s distracting Paul, otherwise why would he have packed two tubes of toothpaste and no toothbrush into his overnight bag?—but he’s harder than he’s ever been and John can feel that pressing against his thigh every time Paul cants his hips up seeking but not finding the purchase he needs.

“You _ love _ it,” John purrs. “Wicked boy…”

John still has Paul’s jaw in his hand, and as he pulls his thumb away, Paul catches it, bites it, draws it in and swirls his tongue, and John unravels. It’s suddenly not enough. Nothing is enough. He needs it all and _ now_; nothing else will do. 

John lowers his head and presses his forehead to Paul’s, breathes him in, wills him to become part of him, binding him to his DNA. 

“I’m _ your _ wicked boy, though,” Paul says. “I came here for you, didn’t I?” 

John crushes Paul’s lips against his own, and Paul whines beneath him. But still, he pushes John’s trousers over his hips, and when John lets him up for air, he wriggles out of his own, and finally they’re free and all of him is touching all of him. 

“_Mmmine_,” John mouths. _ Yes, Paul. You’re mine. My wicked Paul. _

_And I’m yours._

Paul kisses him them, reaching between them to coax John to hardness, and John can’t fucking wait any longer. He breaks from Paul, reaches to the bedside table, slicks his fingers, slicks himself, and works Paul the way they both want him to be, the way they do. Paul throws his head back, falls open wide, thighs apart and gasping as John goes knuckles deep, one and then two, slow slippery scissoring; relaxing ready. 

“Ffffuck,” he hisses. “Oh fuck, John…”

John bears down, strokes himself with one hand and Paul, from the inside, with the other. “Louder.”

“Oh fuck…”

“I don’t think they heard you at the Trocadero.” There’s the third finger. Paul keens and tosses his head to the side, biting his own arm. “_ Shall _ I open the window, then?”

“_Johhhhn… _” 

He’s beautiful when he’s like this, prostrate before him, mewling mottled and feverish and losing himself, losing control; Paul needs control, _ craves _it, and only cedes it to John, in moments like this one. John won’t take that for granted.

He kinks his fingers, a little more roughly this time, and Paul shocks upward. “John!” he cries.

“Ohh, good lad,” John says, pretending to be in control but he’s losing his mind now as much as Paul is, but this is too much fun and he’s prepared to take it as far as he can. “Now one more for Brian next door, yeah?”

One more gentle crook, spreading him wide, deep as he can go, and Paul bucks his hips and lets out a shout that startles even John with how desperately pleadingly loud he goes: 

_“John, fer Chrissake!” _

He cackles a bit. “_Okay_, Macca,” he says, sliding his fingers out and giving his own cock another stroke before replacing it in the vacancy where Paul needs him most. He pushes in, and Paul pushes back, and he’s to-the-hilt at last, and the sighing breaths they exhale become the breaths they pick up as they breathlessly breathe in concert with one another, to a rhythm only they can feel.

John reaches between them and grips Paul in hand, timing his strokes to his thrusts. Paul digs in his heels, lifting up as John bears down, meeting him halfway.

“It’s been too long,” John whispers, taking a kiss from Paul, relishing the heated sweetness he finds there. He thinks about long days on set, long nights alone, too tired to have it off. He’s glad of it now, though; it’s like he knew he was saving it up for _ this_, and _ this _ is… well, something else. He pulls up, thrusts in, licks the roof of Paul’s mouth. “The longest week of my life.”

“Eleven days,” Paul corrects quickly, breathily.

John goes soft, right at his center, and presses his forehead to Paul’s again. “You’ve been counting too?”

Paul meets his eyes, regards him as if he’s just said he invented gravity. “‘Course I have, you daft—”

But John cuts him off with another kiss as he drives himself deeper, and Paul twitches in his hand, engorges, stiffening ever more. His mouth falls slack, eyes pitched back as he arches his back and presses his chest into John before slackening, falling back to the bed with a heavy groan. John twists his palm as he kisses his way down the bassist’s throat and buries his head against Paul’s shoulder, looking between them at their twinned arousal—his hidden by Paul, Paul’s hidden by John—and feels himself coming apart.

He squeezes his eyes shut, chases the feeling. “Fuck, Paul, I’m close.”

“Come for me.”

John loves it when he says that, the way he begs for it, the obvious want hanging on his words. “I will… god, Paul…”

They move in tandem, two halves of the same body. John pumps his fist, closed tight around Paul, and strangled sounds from the base of Paul’s throat in the process. 

“John, come for me.” 

John feels heat pool in his cheeks and his belly and there’s fire in his thighs now as he does it, pulses within Paul with a sighing whimper that sounds so pathetic it makes him come even harder. He bites his lip, shaking all over, and Paul squeezes him tight, greedily, milking him.

“C’mere,” Paul lazes, but John shakes his head, slips himself out, and trails kisses down Paul’s damp skin until he takes all of him in his mouth, and _ Yes, there are the gasping moans I wanted_. He sucks and descends on Paul’s throbbing cock, gagging on the fullness of him in the back of his throat; Paul fists a hand in John’s hair as he snaps his hips up and releases to the sky with John’s name falling like water from his lips.

* * *

A half hour later the room service cart arrives with a bottle of scotch and four Cokes and two plates of chips on it. John has no pants on, a button-up t-shirt unbuttoned over his chest, but he’s wearing socks, and feels like that’s a good compromise for everything aside from meeting room service attendees at the door, so the task falls to Paul. He tips the guy, brings in the rolling cart, lets the door swing shut; John flips on the radio, scans the dial for something he can listen to.

“French deejays,” John rolls his eyes as the pop radio station crackles to life beneath his hand. “Can’t understand a word they’re sayin’.”

Paul pops a chip in his mouth and uncaps one of the bottles of Coke to divvy up between two glass tumblers already filled with ice and two fingers of scotch. “You don’t speak a lick of French, John.”

John whirls on him, mischief in his eyes. “_Vive la baguette_!” he cries. “_Oui, mon_ swine! _C’est la _VD! _Voulez_ boob coochie _avec_ _moi_ say sore?”

Paul collapses in a fit of giggles, and John watches from across the room as his lover clutches his stomach. Making Paul laugh tops John’s list of things to do on a daily basis, and he’s done it. He’s more than satisfied. He’s bold. He feels on top of the world. He strides across the room to the window. He throws open the brocaded drapes and unlatches the right pane of glass, letting in the sounds and smells of Paris by nightfall filter into the room.

“I want to shout from the rooftops that I love Paul McCharmley,” he says.

“Ah, you won’t do it though,” Paul says, sitting up to finish pouring into the glass. “But if you do, you might want to put pants on, though.” 

John had wanted to embarrass Paul, to bring that delicious flush to his skin once more, and would have been disappointed in Paul’s nonchalance if he’d been paying attention. But John is speechless instead, dumbstruck, leaning against the railing that separates him from outside. It’s rained since they locked themselves in here; the glass is streaked with droplets and the cool air is scented with dampness, with earth. The sky hangs low overhead in patches, as if the clouds are still heavy with rain unrained. But in the spaces where they part, the sunset paints the firmament in wide swaths of Impressionist pinks and purples. Paris is showing off, and John's heart aches. There are sirens in the distance. From however-many-floors up, he can hear laughter. He’d said it as a joke, but now that he’s standing on this precipice, out of reach, it’s all he wants to do: to shout his love from the rooftops and hold it steady against his beating chest. He wants to run down and join in whatever fun is happening in the darkness below. He wants to take Paul by the hand and wander the streets of Paris until the city is etched into the soles of their feet. Across the river, the Eiffel Tower lights up. He inhales, shivers.

Paul joins him at his side, hands him a glass, leans on the balustrade. “I forgot where we were for a minute,” he whispers.

“Me too.”

They stand there, shoulder to shoulder, sipping scotch-and-Cokes like they’ve always done, like they’re young and foolish and have the whole world in front of them. Only now they _ do _have the whole world in front of them, but it’s no longer the goal they’re heading towards, not when the future they want has been condensed and concentrated into the person standing next to them.

_I’ll go wherever you go, _John thinks as he leans down a bit, lets his hand drape across Paul’s. 

“Paris has got us good, doesn’t it?” Paul asks.

“No better place to be got, far as I’m concerned.”

There's a sadness to his words though as he regards the night with envy. Paris will always have Paris, but they've only got forty-eight hours. John leans against the railing. "We're five years older than we were last time."

"Mm-hmm."

John sighs, takes a breath. "How old will we be the _next _time?"

Paul clucks his tongue disapprovingly. "Oh John. We've got tonight, and tomorrow, and tomorrow night too," he says, pressing a kiss to John's shoulder. "Let's not borrow trouble."

John leans into Paul's warmth and takes a sip from his drink. "But without touring and recording..." _I'm not going to see you every day, Paul. I can't live if I don't see you. I'll die, Paul. I swear it..._

Paul presses a kiss to John’s shoulder as the song on the radio begins to play. He sighs. “This, right now, this is it.”

“This is what?”

“Everything.”

John looks at Paul like Paul is the sun and the moon and stars put together to look like heaven, and that's what he is, _Heaven on Earth_. Paul hooks a smile around his eye teeth and John smiles back, a little dreamily as the sky continues slouching towards twilight, dragging them with it. In the background, Carl Wilson is crooning, and beside him, Paul McCartney is swooning. John can only think in lyrics that aren’t his own. 

“_[God only knows what I’d be without you…](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yN6iaaOyk0)_”

* * *

_Neither of them held each other down; in fact, they took it in turns. 'One good turn deserves an encore’ pretty well summed up their relations. They spent three happy months together and parted in a seething rage._

_To this day, his memories of her are clear and fresh. Like a force-fed baby, he’ll never forget, and neither, I hope, will she._


End file.
